Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(77)

My head aches from the emotion and stress, and I get up and go to the bathroom. I study myself in the mirror. Fine lines etched lightly on my forehead, at the corners of my lids. A distant, shocked look and reddened eyes. I look like someone who’s seen hell and lived.

That’s something to rest on for a moment.

My cell phone rings, and I put it on the bathroom counter to see who’s calling. I don’t know the number, but I answer it anyway.

“I need to talk to you,” a cool, elegant voice says. “I’d like to come inside.”

Inside?

It’s a second later that I realize who it is, and the ice inside me grows into a glacier. I hang up the call. I look at myself in the mirror again.

Then I go to the door and open it to face Miranda Nelson Tidewell.

Out in the parking lot, the deputy gets out of his cruiser and comes toward us. Miranda must know he’s coming. She doesn’t turn to look. She’s taller than I am. Thinner, in the way that some rich people are, as if she’s dieted away half her rib cage. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans. A brooch with a gold bird is the only jewelry, and I know she wears it because her daughter loved birds and was in school to become a vet.

“Everything all right, Ms. Proctor?” the deputy asks me. He has his hand on the butt of his gun. He can’t figure out what’s going on between the two of us.

I’m not sure I can either.

Miranda raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. A cool, calm challenge.

“We’re all right,” I tell him. “She’s going to come in for coffee.”

He doesn’t like it, but he nods and goes back to his cruiser.

“Coffee,” Miranda says. She sounds amused. “I can’t imagine what kind of trash this place must have available, but by all means. Let’s be civilized.”

We just stare at each other for a long moment. She has haunting eyes, the kind of blue that seems like arctic ice, with color that shifts with her mood. Pale-blonde hair, going gray in graceful swoops.

I move back, and she steps inside. I don’t take my eyes off her as I shut and lock the door. She’s the one who ought to be afraid. After all, she’s now locked in here with me.

But she’s not, in any way I can detect. She examines the room clinically, and while she seems mildly revolted, she says, “Are your children here?”

“Not in the room,” I say. “Next door.”

“Good.” She suddenly meets my gaze. “I’m sorry they’re been made part of this.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” I say. “You want me to feel your pain. The pain of a mother losing her children. You think I don’t know that? I saw it on your face every day during my trial. I admit, I thought you moved on with your life. But here you are. Still.”

“Here I am.” She’s studying me, trying to read me. “I find it obscene that they let you keep those children, considering what you’ve done.”

I still haven’t raised my voice, though I want to. “And what is it I’ve done, besides survive a man even you have to admit was a monster?”

“You enabled him. You supported him. You helped.”

“I. Survived.”

“My daughter didn’t.” Her expression doesn’t alter. I’m not sure that it can. The plastic surgery is brilliant, but the effect is unnatural. Nevertheless, I see something move underneath, like a creature shifting in its shell.

“How far are you going to go with this . . . documentary?” I ask her. “Coming after me is one thing. Involving my kids . . . that’s not okay. Are you planning to hound Sam too?”

“Sam. Well. He chose his bed. Literally, it seems.” The distaste just steams off her words. “Sam certainly knew who Gina Royal really was, at least before he went to Stillhouse Lake. And yet you were still able to twist him all out of shape.”

“I’m very tired, Miranda. Why are you here?” I ask it bluntly, because I’m already sick of playing her game. And the urge to rip out a handful of that perfectly ordered hair is pretty strong.

“You helped kill my daughter. And I want to know why a mother would do that. How a mother could do that, and not slit her own throat.”

There it is, finally. Right out in the open. A naked statement, not even clothed in anger. She’s stating a fact, as she sees it. And demanding an explanation.

“Melvin Royal killed your daughter,” I tell her. “Melvin Royal didn’t need or want my help. He was a serial killer. He fantasized and planned and stalked and abducted and murdered all by himself. I’m alive because I was stupid. Because I believed him when he told me he was working late, or making tables in his workshop, and do you know why? Because on some level, he frightened me, and I was afraid to even begin to find out why.” I catch my breath. “You have no idea how much that hurts when I look back at it. How sorry I am that I didn’t—didn’t become what I needed to be, when it would have saved lives.”

If she was expecting a full confession, she’s disappointed, but I can’t tell what Miranda is feeling. She’s a frozen lake of a woman, with something dark swimming deep beneath the surface.

She turns and walks to the tiny desk. I feel myself go still as my instincts and training start to kick in. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this? Talk to you face-to-face?” she asks me. She holds up one of the cheap foam cups. “I believe you mentioned you might make some coffee?”